Dead Lies Dreaming

by Charles Stross

  She kicked herself up to speed and jump-turned sharply onto the right-hand pavement at the end of the alleyway, narrowly avoiding an elderly shopper towing a wheelie-bag. The getaway Porsche screeched into a right turn outside a Waitrose, then braked sharply to avoid the back of a crawling Number 9 bus. Wendy grimaced and bared her teeth, panting as she jinked and wove her way between pedestrians, trying to catch up with the SUV on the other side of the road. It was a ridiculously one-sided race: the Porsche was theoretically capable of hitting two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, but London traffic today travelled at the same crawl as it had in the 1880s. Meanwhile Wendy with her skates on could use pavement and road with equal aplomb, as long as she didn’t mind the risk of being squished by a left-turning truck or caught in a bus’s blind spot. She was gaining ground within a minute, even though the traffic was moving. But as she tried to second-guess Getaway Woman’s likely route in order to cut her off, the phone rang.

  What the fuck—Wendy hit the “accept call” button. “Kind of busy,” she panted.

  “Were you there?” demanded Gibson.

  “Yes, I’m in hot pursuit—”

  “Break it off!” Gibson sounded alarmed.

  “They’re unarmed—”

  “The hell they are! I can’t afford for you to get shot, our cleanup metrics will go to hell—”

  “This bunch are unarmed!” she shouted. Getaway Woman had spotted a gap in the oncoming traffic and gunned the big Porsche, screeching out to nip smartly around the bus and accelerate down the wrong side of the street, pulling ahead again. “There were two gangs! Repeat, two gangs! I’m after our original targets—they’re getting away—”

  She glimpsed the edge of Holland Park between the buildings on the right, then had to take emergency evasive action to avoid a feral cycle courier hurtling out of Earls Court Road without looking. Live action Frogger, fuck my life, she thought. “Suspects are on Kensington High Street driving a black mark two Porsche Cayenne Turbo, plates Papa Hotel Ten Foxtrot Yankee India, going right right right onto Abbotsbury Road northbound—”

  “Break off!” Gibson told her. “I’ll run the plates, but for the love of god back off now!”

  “Fuck.” Wendy went into a drift along the pavement, slowing as the Porsche pulled away from her. It drove past the park before screeching into an unsignalled right turn and disappearing from view. “Why?”

  “Need you back at the bank,” Gibson said heavily. “The Met first responders are declaring a major incident and they have questions for you. It’s a murder scene now. I thought our suspects were nonviolent, we’re dropping the case if they’re—”

  “I can confirm the gang we’re after are unarmed. I was in the process of arresting two of them when the shooting started outside. Their getaway team showed up and they were unarmed, too, I nearly had them, what the fuck happened?” They have transhuman mind control voodoo, that’s what happened, she thought, but she wasn’t about to say that to her boss until she could account for exactly how they’d used it to blindside her. That rankled.

  “I don’t know and I don’t like it,” said Gibson. “But you’d better return to Pennine Bank right away. I’ll meet you there with our duty solicitor, and after we’ve got you out of the frame and scheduled the police interviews we can discuss what to do next.”

  * * *

  The Bond paused at the end of the alleyway to adjust his suit jacket and straighten his tie before he stepped out onto the main road and walked away.

  Next time, he promised himself grimly.

  Behind him, the abandoned assault shotgun cooled slowly in one of the recycling bins just inside the end of the alley.

  BIDDING WAR

  It took hours for Wendy to disentangle herself from the investigation, even with a Home Office thief-taker ID card and the HiveCo lawyer’s assistance. One of the bank employees and four civilians had been wounded, two of them seriously enough they might not survive. Two of the AK-toting thugs had died at the scene, shredded by the shotgun-wielding maniac. The police were collectively furious and confused, and Wendy had contributed to the fracas in a small way, peppering the inner door and walls of the bank with arrow holes. Luckily everything had been caught on camera and the duty solicitor’s pointed comments about self-defense and the relative lethality of fully automatic weapons versus an imaginary bow and arrow finally got through to the Inspector in charge. Wendy was released under caution after four hours of questioning, with a stern admonition not to leave the country and to present herself at the local nick within forty-eight hours for a full deposition.

  (That she had until two years earlier been one of the Met’s own was not a point Wendy brought up: it might have led to uncomfortable questions about why she was no longer on the force, not to mention what the blithering hell was she doing engaging in a firefight with suspected terrorists. Best let sleeping dogs—and past careers—lie.)

  “Let me get this straight,” Mary, the duty solicitor, said, “you were on the scene to interview the bank manager about a previous robbery, when you spotted the bank robbers on the CCTV feed from the front of the branch. Let’s call them Group A.”

  “Yes.” Wendy nodded encouragingly.

  Mary nibbled the end of her propelling pencil. “You asked Mr. Granger to lure Group A into an office, and were in the process of arresting them when a different group of robbers—armed ones, let’s call them Group B—showed up.”

  “Exactly. I was waiting for Group A to reveal what they were after before I arrested them.”

  “And then—” Gibson began.

  “I made a risk assessment, that four thugs with automatic weapons—they were shooting by this point—were a far greater danger to the public than the two unarmed suspects I was with, so I temporarily confiscated the item that Group A were interested in, then attempted to get them out of the bank so I could arrest them without fear of Group B intervening.”

  “But there was a third party. Let’s call him Individual C.”

  Wendy cringed. She’d never actually seen Individual C, but she’d heard the ear-bleeding crash of his shotgun, even over the roar of Group B’s guns. “He made his presence known.”

  “What happened next?” Mary scribbled shorthand notes on her pad as she waited for Wendy to continue.

  “Individual C shot out the lock on the corridor door. I assessed that Individual C—or members of Group B, if any survived—would be entering the corridor shortly, and they wouldn’t be looking for tea and sympathy. So I shot first, not aiming at people, just suppressive fire.”

  Mary waited, but when Wendy didn’t fill the silence, she moved on to the next question. “According to the police you were unarmed when they apprehended you. What happened to your gun?”

  “Oh, I don’t need a gun to shoot people…”

  Mary sighed and massaged her forehead. “Run that by me again?”

  Gibson cleared his throat. “Ms. Deere is a transhuman, class three, one of our augmented Field Investigators. Her ability is what we call a somatic illusionist.”

  “I can make imaginary things,” Wendy tried to help.

  “She creates illusions,” Gibson clarified. “Illusions that are tangible enough you can weigh them or hit somebody over the head with them. They don’t last very long if she loses physical contact with them—a couple of seconds—and she can’t make anything complicated or very big, but she’s never unarmed.”

  “Side-arm baton.” Wendy raised her right hand and produced her nightstick with a flourish. “Or, in this case, a lightweight compound bow and as many arrows as I can shoot before my arm falls off.”

  The solicitor froze. “You went up against armed robbers with a bow and arrow?”

  Wendy shook her head. “Not exactly—I just fired enough arrows down the corridor to make the robbers think twice about storming it while I evacuated everyone through the fire exit.”

  “I think I see why the police are having a hard time working out the sequence of events.” Mary was
keeping it professional but Wendy could tell that the solicitor was having a hard time believing her story. “What happened next?”

  “The bank should have the CCTV recordings from the interior? I’m pretty sure they also had a couple of cameras overlooking the fire exits and the back alleyway. Um.” Wendy glanced at her boss for confirmation.

  Gibson nodded. “We’re getting access,” he said. “Continue.”

  Wendy took them through the sequence with the weird and abrupt wave of existential nausea that had swamped her, the teenage kid’s uncanny ability to pick the pocket of an armed and alert thief-taker, then their escape in the getaway car and her abortive pursuit on imaginary rollerblades. “Did you run the plates—”

  “Yes. Cloned,” Gibson announced.

  “Well fuck.” Wendy was abruptly out of self-restraint. “After all that effort—”

  “First things first.” Gibson laid a restraining hand on her forearm. “What’s the legal picture looking like?”

  “Well.” Mary the duty solicitor smiled like a rodent preparing to sink its teeth into the ball of an unsuspecting human’s thumb. “Let’s tackle the worst case analysis first. The police can charge you with carrying an offensive weapon. They can also charge you with reckless endangerment. Theft or handling stolen goods would be a bit of a reach—”

  “Excuse me?” snarled Wendy.

  “—Did you or did you not take an item from a safe deposit box that had been procured under false pretenses?” Mary shrugged: “I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, channeling my inner Crown Prosecution Service jobsworth in search of an easy conviction. For what it’s worth, I don’t think that one would fly because you were given custody of the box by someone in a position of lawful supervision—Mr. Granger—and took the item for temporary safe-keeping in the presence of known criminals, with the intent of returning it. The offensive weapon charge I’d defend by taking the position that, as a transhuman, it’s a manifestation of your person, and you can’t reasonably set it aside any more than an Aikido black belt could reasonably be expected to refrain from using their skills in self-defense when attacked. The outcome … I’d say it depends on how good a barrister we could get for you, and whether the judge got up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. A toss-up, in other words. The hard bit is the reckless endangerment, but it’s all on CCTV, and as you weren’t aiming at anyone in particular…?”

  “Who, me? Nope, never.”

  “Good, then we have at least a mitigating factor to set beside the thugs with highly illegal automatic weapons who were shooting at you. No, Ms. Deere, the police are highly unlikely to charge you—not unless they have some reason to hold a grudge against you.” She put her pen down on her notepad for emphasis, and smiled brightly.

  Wendy offered her a strained smile in return. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we. Sir?”

  “I suppose so.” Gibson didn’t sound happy. “I can’t afford to have you off the job because some randos with heavy artillery took a dump in our punch bowl. This pilot program is too important.” He glanced at Mary: “You don’t need to hear this.”

  “Don’t worry, I know when I’m not wanted.” Mary stood as she gathered her papers. “I’ll get this written up and you can call me if anything comes up. Be seeing you, I’m sure.” She closed the door carefully behind her.

  “Pilot program.” Wendy gave Gibson a hard stare. “How many other transhuman investigators do you have, sir? I mean, surely you must have more than—”

  “—How many transhumans do you think there are who’ve done full police training, worked the beat, and passed their detective exams?”

  She was about to say scores, surely? But something gave her pause. “How many?”

  “Two years ago, when the Home Office set up the TPCF and set this whole ball rolling, they started with one. You might have heard of him: Officer Friendly. Six months down the line, when TPCF was rolled into the Met, they were up to eight. But three of them were borrowed spooks, and the other four were still probationers. I gather they’ve only been full constables for a few months. You’d already left the force, otherwise you’d have been up for the world’s fastest promotion to detective inspector.”

  She stared at him. “What you’re saying is, I should have held out for more money.”

  To his credit, Gibson looked abashed. “It’s a pilot program. We had to start somewhere, so we started with you. Management assigned you the codename ABLE ARCHER: that you’re a named asset should tell you something. Once we can recruit some more transhumans, and once you’re past your probationary term, you’ll be in line for promotion. We’ll need someone to take charge of training and draw up professional standards in conjunction with HR. As all that stuff is management-level, I’ll be able to push through a re-grading, then shake the money tree again—if you’re willing to rise to the challenge. But right now, while you’re doing a gumshoe job, you get gumshoe wages. Is that clear?”

  “Clear enough.” She shrugged. “It was worth a try.” Gumshoe wages don’t pay enough to put up with gangsters unloading Kalashnikovs at me, she added silently.

  “So.” Gibson tilted his office chair back. “Any questions?”

  “Let’s see. Do we have any leads on Group A, after you made me abandon the pursuit?”

  “Maybe.” Gibson twitched the mouse on his computer, squinting at something on the screen. “Incidentally, engaging in an unsupported solo pursuit of a gang of escaping bank robbers may be brave, but another word for brave is foolhardy. You’re not in the Met any more, you’re not a sworn officer of the law, you’re not protecting the public, and I will be really annoyed if you put yourself in hospital for six months by engaging in unauthorized heroics. Like inviting some thug to run you over with an SUV.” Gibson’s tone was even and he didn’t raise his voice, but Wendy sat up straight as a flush of embarrassment stained her cheeks.

  “Sorry sir. Won’t happen again.” She paused. “If I’m not protecting the public and upholding the law, what am I doing?”

  “You’re here to take in thieves we’re contracted to arrest, Deere; it’s a business. You’re a fancy version of what our trans-Atlantic cousins call a bounty hunter. You are not paid to put your neck on the line. If you want to play at being a superhero, do it on your own time and don’t come crying to me when it all goes horribly wrong.” His cheek twitched. “So. What exactly was it about the safe deposit box that attracted our targets’ interest?”

  “A letter, sir.” Wendy gave him a slow look. “I didn’t get to read much of it, but it was addressed to an Eve Starkey, and it seemed to be an invitation to participate in an auction. Something about sealed bids and a rare manuscript. I, uh, got a number and a description, but no title or author? The letter referred to it as the AW-312.4 concordance.”

  Gibson leaned towards his computer and started rapid-fire typing. “AW-312.4? Okay, I’m actioning a search.” He paused, then glanced at her. “This is major. More than one group wants that thing and they’re willing to spray bullets around to get it. We may be pulled off the case—depends how Management assess the risk level. Remember, we’re not cops and you’re too valuable to put your life on the line. It’s just a job. There are some sources I can consult and I’ll get back to you if anything shakes loose, but that’s all.”

  “Sources you—”

  “Not police, not Home Office. You aren’t cleared for those contacts, at least not yet.”

  “Oh. Then what should I do now?”

  Gibson blinked. “I don’t know—why don’t you go and write up today’s events while they’re still fresh in your mind? Then … yes, take the rest of today off, and tomorrow as well—I’ll write it up as sick leave. It can’t have been any fun getting caught up in all that. If you need a referral for counseling—”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” Wendy said hastily. “So, uh. I’ll go write stuff up, then go home. See you the day after tomorrow, I guess?”

  “Yes. Dismissed.” Gibson’s eyes were f
ocussing on his computer as she stood. Already forgotten, she headed for the cubicle she’d been assigned for desk work. You are not to put your neck on the line on company time. Message received, loud and clear. But Gibson had overlooked something very important when he told her not to take risks.

  This thing with the transhuman gang, the impresario and his not-husband and their teenage sidekick and dreadlock-rocking getaway driver, wasn’t a job; it was personal. It had turned personal the moment they broke her ward, slammed her with mind control mojo, and stole the bid letter out of her inside pocket. Right after she got them out from under the guns of Group B and Automatic Shotgun Dude.

  And Gibson was smart enough to notice and devious enough to want some baked-in deniability when she threw down with them. Otherwise, why else would he have given her the day off?

  * * *

  “I can’t believe we did that! Fuuuuuuuu…!”

  “Chill out, kid. We escaped, didn’t we?”

  “Did you see her on those blades? Where the shitting hell did she get them from anyway? She was chasing us like the fucking T-Rex from the first Jurassic Park—”

  “She saved our lives.” Imp tiredly cracked the ring-pull on one of Doc’s cans of highly regrettable lager. “Sure, she was trying to arrest us, but she wasn’t trying to shoot us.”

  “She saw our faces,” said Doc. “Fuck. Who am I kidding?” He ran shaky fingers through his hair. “It was a trap and she was waiting for us and we sprang it. She probably knew what was in the deposit box all along.”

  “I need to talk to Eve—” Imp cleared his throat—“our employer. No way did she set this up, but there might be a leak in her organization.” She’d told him as much, he just hadn’t felt the need to share it with his family. He was looking out for them, he rationalized: Why worry them needlessly? Now he was regretting it as three pairs of eyes swivelled his way. He took a swig of beer. “What?” he asked.

  “There were guns, Jeremy!” Game Boy’s voice rose to a squeak: “Fucking guns!”